ADOPT A ROADRUNNER

My horses need to be fed separately. Mama Sally will starve herself to death in order to allow pretty-boy Najale stuff his pretty face with every single bit of hay, grain, carrots... actually, no, she does fight him over the carrots.

But I put Sally into the corral twice a day and feed her there, and Najale stays in the pasture and get fed. That way she doesn't lose any more weight, and Najale doesn't gain any.

And when I use the word 'pasture', please don't allow your mind to insert a grandiose lush, green field in Kentucky with sleek thoroughbreds grazing in comfort.

We are talking southern Arizona pasture, which in my backyard is sandy soil, thorny mesquite trees (which the horses cut themselves on by using as an au natural backscratcher), and extremely sturdy (and green only during monsoons) scrub grass.

They stay separated for about two hours, or at least until Sally finishes off the majority of her meal (Najale eats like I do; scarfs it down in about fifteen minutes, which for a horse is FAST).

But Sally now has a new friend who eats with her.

I thought the first couple of times it was just coincidence that there was a roadrunner in the corral with her, but it's been over a week now.

And until I began searching for photos for this particular blog did I realize that some people do NOT see roadrunners every single day of the year. A lot of individuals in the United States do not have to swerve multiple times driving home to avoid roadrunners running racing in front of their car.

So here is YOUR part; let's name this roadrunner.

First place will receive a personalized photograph (can't promise he will sign it - we'll try) and something roadrunner related - I have no idea yet, but I'm certain the state of Arizona will have some trashy little souvenir that you will just LOVE to toss into your junk drawer.

Deadline for this contest is.... well, until I get an entry I like.

DISCLAIMER: This contest is totally and completely biased, unfair and subject to any fit of whimsy that I feel ready to deal by. No promises, no contracts, no big names involved... other than the roadrunner's name.

Let us begin.

EVEN AFTER THIRTY YEARS

This evening I was reminded once again of why my husband and I do not work together.

I freely admit that I take ownership of my projects. Okay, maybe domineering. Alright, alright, BOSSY. Dictatorial. Arrogant. But to my credit, at least I acknowledge that I AM bossy about things that I am in charge of.

Tonight, it was one of MY projects, since our local greasy-spoon is being forced to shut its doors.

I should be sorry that I cannot paint it as a five-star suave posh restaurant.

But a great deal of the charm of the Palominas Trading Post is the life-sized carved wooden Indian - the furrowing plow on the wall behind the soda machine - the dilapidated outward appearance of a delightful dinner.

And Pam's pie is to die for - Bill and I go every single Saturday morning for pancakes and Pam's "Camp Fire" omelet - every single Thanksgiving John and Pam hold a turkey dinner with all the trimmings for anyone who doesn't have a family to spend the holiday with... at no charge.

Since they are closing this week, I suggested some close of 'farewell' time, and so this Saturday the Palominas Trading Post will be hosting a pot-luck luncheon (so Pam doesn't have to cook) and just have a nice gathering of regulars.

I made some signs and some posters, and was going out this late afternoon to post them on the highway leading to the PTP.

My husband was looking his forlorn-why-are-you-deserting-me-on-a-beautiful-Sunday-afternoon look, so I asked if he wanted to come along.

My first mistake.

I thought it was pretty clear that these were my posters, and my project, and I was going to do it, and he was just along for the ride and wonderful company (no one can ever say I don't have a great self-image and secure ego, right?).

So when I asked, at the third stop, for his assistance in getting one of the poster higher for better visibility, I assumed the chain-of-command was fairly obvious and would be honored.

Our 'cooperation' lasted maybe 45 seconds, and while we didn't drive home in a huff, it was mainly because I simply stopped after this poster and drove us home.

We can go places, we can enjoy things, we just simply cannot work together.

FALSE FEELING OF FELICITY

It's been kinda an emotional day for me.

A very nice kind person sent me one of those critically-ill-child-orphan-dolphin who will get 3 cents-five-dollars-a-lifetime-supply-of-ill-operating-Vista-PCs-directly-from-Bill-Gates if you only forward-this-email-repeat-a-prayer-or-help-the-king-of-Nigeria's-sister's-uncle's-half-grandfather-god brother.

Can you tell I don't like these things?

This one was about and included a photo of a severely-burned young girl in Poland who needed this email forwarded to cover her medical needs etc. etc. etc.

And it hit way too close to home to let me simply hit the delete key.

My older sister and her two girls were horribly burned in an auto explosion when I was eight or nine. My sister was in the burn unit for six months; my nieces, both over a year. They have all had extensive plastic surgery, and although both girls are happily married and have children themselves, they will always be extremely physically scarred.

So I wrote back a very sedate, calm email, ccing everyone whom this lovely person had emailed this particular email to (note: another reason to always put email addresses under bc instead of send) that this was one of those partially true emails, noted the snopes.com site with information about it and other such emails.

To begin with.

I even put "and you do not need to read anything else."

And THEN I imploded about how instead of allowing yourself to feel righteous about forwarding a *^%#&(!@# email, you should go volunteer at a hospital, support your local fire department's fire safety programs, go read at a nursing home, donate your furniture to Habitat for Humanity...

It brought more emotional memories back than I had anticipated.

A KODAK MOMENT

My husband is moving into a different office.

Same job, same building, same everything - just somebody higher up the food chain wanted his office , which is located next to the barber shop and across the hall from the cafeteria.

Personally, I believe someone with the odd combination of trichotillomania (hair compulsive behavior) and binge eating wants it for pure an simple convenience.

Anyway, I went over today for the first time in literally YEARS.

It's a half-hour drive (which, granted, my husband does twice every workday) on a military post. Which means I have to show my military identification three times, sign into the building, and then must be escorted.

And this is just to get to my husband's OLD office. Getting to his new office takes two ADDITIONAL security procedures to get into.

Which is why I don't go up there very often.

His new office has a door (a huge difference when the grand majority of employees are in huge low-ceilinged - if that isn't a word it should be - cubicle farms), and more impressive furniture (something with a credenza) and TWO big tables each with a glass covering

Although I've never understood the glass cover bit. The only reason I can see for that is a place to stick memos that you are supposed to refer to regularly. Or pictures your kids have drawn.

But I ohhed and ahhed the appropriate amount of time, met probably fifteen people whose names I am never going to remember, and allowed my sweet husband to escort me outside (since he had to walk me through the checkpoints AND sign me back out, it was almost on his way).

And as we were were walking across the ten acre parking lot, I happened to look up and saw some hawks. Well, admittedly, they have been large crows, but they weren't ACTING like crows, they were acting like hawks - and why am I making such a big deal about this?

Testing my husband's (admittedly) limited patience, I stood there and watched the two birds perform an intricate dance of flight for a good five minutes, using the brisk cool wind and their obviously familiarity for air travel to move in a perfect duet, gracefully, elegantly, and precisely mimicking each other's actions.

They never landed, never moved more than 20 to 30 feet in either direction the entire time I watched them.

One of those times I wished I had a video camera - or understood how to use my cell phone as one - it was beautiful.

MY OTHER SISTER'S KEEPER

My oldest sister and I have never had a 'sisterly' relationship for one pure and simple reason; she is 22 years older than I am, and was married and had a child before I was even born.

So it's been much more like having an aunt instead of a sister - or maybe like having a part-time second mom.

I do remember spending a lot of summer vacations with my sister's family. This may have been due to my parents marital instability, or maybe just to have me around kids my age (i.e. my nieces and my nephew).

And every single one of those summers was at some lake. Because the entire family was water-ski crazy.

No, crazy is too gentle a word. They were INSANE about water-skiing. Water-skiing for competition, water-skiing barefoot (that means without skis - and really, people do that), water-skiing with more than a couple of beers…

No, wait, that's another topic for another time.

My sister even set a record for women's skiing with something to do with Catalina Island - fastest around or distance, something like that.

But guess what? I never ever learned to water-ski, even with everyone teaching me and trying to get me skiing, each and every summer.

Well, not fully.

The 'getting-up' part is supposed to be the tough part, and I could do that just great. For me, it was the 'staying-up-one-the-skis-and-not-eating-lake-water" part that was impossible.

My fondest memories of vacation-time-at-my-sister's was one time when one of my nieces or my nephew and I did something out-of-line (something they did very rarely and I did continually).

My brother-in-law, who was then and is now retired from being a Los Angeles firefighter (read that BIG and TOUGH), stepped right in and was ready to immediately, how shall I put it, administer physical repercussion.

I, at the age of three or four, stood my ground and told him, "You can't do that."

"Why not?" with an expression on his face which would have undoubtedlly stopped a normal child who wished to live to disobey another day.

"Because I am your sister-in-law."

I think he is still a little bit scared of me to this day.

ASKING A BLIND MAN FOR DIRECTIONS

The adult male human population has doubled in my household since January.

And the amount of dirt, crumbs and empty soda cans has quadrupled. Maybe sextupled. No, let's go with octupled (I don't know if that is the correct term, but it appears... cleaner, no pun intended).

Somehow I believed that my son, now older and supposedly wiser, could easily been shown how and thereby WOULD conform easily to my higher standards of cleanliness.

I seem to have forgotten everything from when this little boy first came into my life in 1981.

Being a liberated woman of the 70's, I was determined to raise liberated children.

And it worked great... with the girls.

They had Tonka trucks, bib overalls, sports and the constant adage of 'whatever a boy can do, a girl can do better.'

Then I had my son.

Even without a male role model around (his father was absent five months of his first year - military responsibilities), this cute little baby would immediately take the head off any doll handed him - any item shaped remotely like a stick would instantly become a weapon.

Boys will be boys, regardless of how genderless I tried to keep things.

So as of today, the following actions have not, repeat, have not provided the outcome that I would expect from my girls:

- Leaving polite memos on the kitchen island; they are not read.

- Piling the scattered stuff he leaves around the house in a BIG mound in front of his bedroom door; he walks right over it without a glance.

- Sitting him down and civilly discussing the matter with him; in one ear and out the other.

The next step?

It may very be well be eviction.

Stay tuned.

MY SISTER'S KEEPER

I have to reason myself into attending church services. As in almost every single Sunday.

My nice warm bed can smoothly sweet-talk me into staying under the comforters (my husband takes the dogs out and feeds the horses for me on Sunday mornings, bless him) and remaining unconscious until late afternoon.

And it isn't like I hate church. I always learn something - and yes, normally something that I've heard 3,275 times before but still need to more fully incorporate into my life - and I get my spiritually weekly fill that I so desperately need, as much as I hate to admit it (note to self: review lesson on humility once again).

However, today, after dragging my sorry behind to services, I heard an remarkable suggestion just before church ended.

The lesson was about living in peace and harmony with others. And the teacher freely admitted that when she had first reviewed this lesson a few months ago, she realized that she needed to mend some of her own family relations to be able to teach this lesson.

So she challenged us to mend any strains we might be having with family members.

Which prompted me to call my sister tonight for the first time in a long time.

And I'm glad I did. Because it turns out my brother-in-law decided that they needed to sell their home in Pasadena and move back to Michigan. And she was packing.

And I probably wouldn't have known about it for quite a while.

Thanks, Heavenly Father, for getting the message to me, and I'm sorry I make it so difficult sometimes.

I'll try to do better from now on.